


hope is something you give yourself

by spider_momo



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Batfamily, Depression, Family Bonding, Family Feels, Gen, Humor, Mental Health Issues, Mild Injury, Sickfic, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake Whump, but also that angst, feelings of worthlessness, narration kinda unreliable when it's Tim's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:55:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21527926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spider_momo/pseuds/spider_momo
Summary: “Yes, Dick. I was so mad Tim had the audacity to get sick that I sucker-punched him right in the face.”“I wasn’t accusing you, Jason, ” Dick said placatingly, with his preschool teacher voice, returning his attention to a squirming Tim.“I’m not sick,” Tim continued to protest.“Tim’s sick?” Cass asked, appearing at the door.“No, I’m not!” Tim declared, but at this point it was pretty futile.“No one hits rock bottom like you Drake,” Damian smiled, gleeful almost.Tim is sick and injured and actually really not okay at all.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson
Comments: 22
Kudos: 858
Collections: Tim Drake





	hope is something you give yourself

**Author's Note:**

> Somehow, I had never written Tim whump before? So, I wrote the obligatory sick-Tim fic. 
> 
> This is actually a lot more hurt/angst than I usually do but it was a fun experience to write.

* * *

What do people his age usually do on Friday nights? Go out, Tim would presume. Friday nights were good for going out to town, right? Probably go and grab something to eat, watch a movie? Do people go and watch movies anymore? Tim doesn’t know. He usually just sticks to binge-watching whatever looks interesting enough on his laptop until he passes out. He wonders if feeling disconnected from other people his age is normal too. Probably, right? He’s from a generation of raging anxiety and chronic depression, after all. 

Still, Tim is _pretty sure_ most people stuck at that legally-an-adult-but-still-a-teenager stage of total awkwardness _don’t_ spend their Friday nights in the grimy part of town tracking down leads for a deep underground drug ring. Nor do they end up slipping on the cement ledge of a rooftop that’s slick and icy from the pouring rain and hail mixture and end up bashing their head against the rail of a fire escape as they plunge to the ground because they weren’t focusing on where they were stepping because they had only gotten four hours of sleep the last four nights and were getting nowhere with this case and— 

But Tim already knew he was far from normal so _of course_ , his Friday night routine would be lightyears away from anyone else’s normal. Tim is a bit unsure why he is all of the sudden thinking about what normalcy looks like for non-vigilante youth but he guesses it has something to do with the mild concussion he very likely has. Because he just fell three stories and smashed the left side of his face into a metal bar and is now lying down on a filthy and wet alley in a shady part of the city. Although, like 90% of Gotham could be considered as the _shady part of the city_ . If Tim were more normal and a little saner he’d probably move. Somewhere cleaner and nicer and with better air quality because Gotham City was _filthy_. And with better weather. Although, Tim did tend to get sunburnt easily and he much rather preferred to be cold rather than hot. Maybe Canada. Vancouver was nice and they had mountains. Tim liked mountain views. And moose. He’d never seen a moose in real life. Or a bear. He could live in a cabin in the wilderness. As long as it had WiFi. 

The heavy throbbing behind his left eye brought him back to reality. 

_Okay,_ focus _Tim_. Injury assessment, first. 

Toes and fingers, wiggling smoothly. Good sign. Right knee hurt, but could still bend. Ribs felt sore but not _broken_ sore. Likely just heavy bruising. His head was throbbing hard though, sending intense waves of pain to his forehead and all the way to under his left cheekbone. He could already feel the dark bruises forming from where his face met the metal rail. Nothing broken though, so that was a good sign. 

Okay, step two? Getting up was a smart move, right? 

Rolling over to his stomach, Tim struggled to stand up with shaky legs, using his bo staff for support. His limbs were sore and his head was still throbbing and he was cold and wet and _so tired_ , so Tim made the executive decision to call it a night and headed back to the Cave. 

He was the only one there when he arrived, everyone else likely still on patrol. Even Alfred wasn’t there; probably thought he has a few more hours before everyone came trickling back in. Tim groaned a bit as he peeled off his rain-soaked suit, hating how it clung to his skin. _Gross._

He looked at the colourful bruises that blossomed along his torso and knee as he stepped into the shower, letting the hot water cascade over his clammy skin. The skin surrounding his eye was tender and slightly yellow from bruising too. Minor concussion and bruises were nothing though. Tim could handle that so there was no need to get help from Alfred. No, Tim much rather enjoy his hot shower and then put on the softest pyjamas he owns and then sleep off this entire disaster of a night. It was a good plan, Tim decided. 

* * *

  
  


It was around 9AM when he woke up and his body felt stiff and worn out, his eyes stung, his throat felt raw and scratchy, and Tim wasn’t an idiot he knew he was sick. The urge to dive back under the warm covers and sleep for the rest of the day was pretty tempting. But one look at the cluster of files and documents that sat on his desk for the still-open drug case quickly squashed that idea. He was behind, way too far behind. There was no time to go back to sleep or rest and besides it wasn’t even _that bad_ of a cold. He’d swallow some Tylenol and push through it. 

Tim headed to the bathroom after bending down to scoop up a hoodie that he most definitely stole from someone (Dick? Kon? He couldn’t remember but it was _hella comfy_ ). Turning on the bright bathroom lights hurt his head a bit and Tim stumbled inside, eyes struggling to stay open. He was still feeling groggy and was already mentally planning what coffee to make and how to sneak back to his room undetected and he was pretty sure he had a stash of cold medicine in his closest that he hid from Alfred and if only they’d let him have a coffee machine in his room— 

“Shit!” Tim jumped back, suddenly feeling a lot more awake. Staring back at him in the mirror was his shaken expression; his hair a pretty messy case of bedhead, skin pale and slightly off-colour, either from the shock or the sickness, it was unclear which. And, of course, the highlight of it all: the big ass bruise on his left eye. It was a pretty nasty one too, Tim had to admit, poking at the tender skin by the corner of his eye. All reddish-purple, extending from the area below his eye all up past his eyebrow. 

There really was no hiding that disaster on his face. Which was unfortunate for Tim because he intended to stay below the radar today, avoid letting anyone find out he was sick and make him rest or something dumb like that. 

Tim took another glance at his face. He should probably get ice on that but that would mean going downstairs and there was a high chance he’d run into somebody else and then he wouldn’t be able to finally sit down and get a good lead on this stupid case. Well, guess he was just staying in his room all day. No coffee, no ice... _no breakfast_ the back of his mind supplied and Tim briefly remembered that breakfast wasn’t on his list of things to do anyway so that wasn’t actually a loss, right? 

Tim finished up in the bathroom and stumbled back out into his bedroom, kicking aside some dirty clothes. He found the bottle of Tylenol Cold and dry-swallowed two pills before grabbing his laptop and case files and some bottled water and crawling back into his bed. 

He cracked his knuckles and got to work.

* * *

“Ooh, ooh!” Dick rushed over, hands stretched outwards, “I wanna help— _oof!_ ” 

Jason stopped Dick from getting any closer with an elbow to the stomach. 

“ _First_ of all, like hell you’re helping without washing your hands—”

“I was just about to wash ‘em!”

“ _Second of all_ ,” Jason shielded the dough away from Dick with his body this time, “No.”

“No?”

“No, you can’t help.” 

“Aw, why not?” Dick sagged against the counter. 

“Because I’m showing Cass how to bake bread rolls,” Jason gestured to Cass who continued to flip through the cookbook, unbothered by her brothers’ squabbling, “and _you’d_ just get in the way. 

“Would not!”

“Would _too_. And stop pouting!” Jason scowled giving Dick on final shove before returning to the ball of dough in front of him, “You’re a grown man, for God’s sake.” 

Cass silently laughed when Dick just pouted harder while draping himself across the other end of the counter with a loud sigh.

“Don’t worry. We’ll share after,” she promised before returning her attention to how Jason kneaded the dough. 

“So whiny,” Jason grumbled under his breath, folding the dough over before pressing into it with his knuckles and then forming it into a ball. Cass dutifully picked up the formed ball and lined it neatly next to the other ones in the tray. 

“It’s not fair you come over to hang out with just Cass. Do things with me too!”

Cass shook with more laughter. Brothers were so silly. 

“What’s wrong with him today? Why’s he being so clingy?” Jason asked. Cass hopped off the counter and placed the tray into the oven as Jason set the timer on one of those old wind up ones that Alfred liked to use. 

“He’s lonely,” Cass shrugged, dusting the excess flour off her hands, “And getting old.”

“Hey!”

“It’s sad, isn’t it?” Jason sighed as the two continued their faux-sympathy charade, ignoring Dick’s protesting. 

“You guys are _mean_.” 

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. You can help,” Jason relented. 

“Really?” Dick perked up.

“You can clean up,” Cass grinned. 

“...I hate you guys,” Dick grumbled but moved closer to help wash the utensils anyway. 

Jason and Dick continued to bicker and Cass would watch with amusement or add in comments to fuel the fire every now and then as the three of them cleaned up the countertop and washed the dishes. After the kitchen was tidy again, Cass digs through the drawer to locate the fun oven mitts, the ones shaped like lobsters, before she spotted Damian grabbing some juice from the fridge on the other side of the kitchen. She went over and snapped at his ear with the lobster mitts, giggling when he scowled up at her. 

“What are you three doing?” He questioned, eyes watching his other two siblings, who were currently whipping at each other with dishrags, with mild abhorrence. 

“Cooking bread,” Cass smiled, snapping the mitts again.

“Baking bread,” Dick corrected, stopping his dishrag battle with Jason and making his way over to Damian too. 

“Baking bread,” Cass remedied, pinching at Damian’s cheeks with her lobsters. Damian scowled again, moving out of her reach and over to the counter with his berry juice

“ _Cass_ and _I_ were baking bread. This idiot had nothing better to do but bother us.” 

“Do you want some? It’s almost ready,” Cass asked Damian, interjecting before Dick and Jason could start bickering again. 

“I suppose I could try a little bit,” Damian shrugged, sipping his juice. The timer started to ring and Cass skipped over to the oven, excited to finally get to use the oven mitts. Jason and Dick struggled to get the timer to shut off while Damian rolled his eyes at them. Cass smiled at the poofy bread rolls, setting them down on the cooling rack. 

“Smells good,” Cass noted, the others nodded in agreement. 

After waiting a bit for them to cool down, Cass ripped a roll in half, offering it to Damian. 

“Grayson, you could at least eat like you have _some_ self-respect,” Damian accepted the bread from his sister, disgust evident on his face as he watched Dick swallow a roll practically whole.

“It’s like you want to choke,” Jason shook his head, “Fucking masochist.” 

“Shh...age-appropriate language,” Dick said nodding his head in Damian’s direction.

“He’s 13, not three,” Jason said at the same time Damian snapped, “Don’t patronize me!”

Dick rolled his eyes and poured himself a glass of milk, another bread roll stuffed in his mouth. 

“Save some for the others,” Cass frowned looking at the diminishing number of bread rolls. They should have made more. 

“Do we have any of that apricot jam left?” Dick swallowed the remaining bread and began rummaging through the fridge. 

“Let’s make sweet bread next time?” Cass suggested, looking through the cookbook once more. “Banana bread?” She asked, looking up at Damian for his thoughts.

“With chocolate chips?” 

“And walnuts,” Cass nodded. Damian nodded with approval, finishing off his juice. 

“You will help again,” Cass poked Jason’s cheek. It was a statement, not a question, so Jason didn’t bother to argue with her. Besides, baking with Cass was _that_ bad. Plus, more bread. 

“Alfred!” Dick hollered after being unable to locate the apricot jam. 

“No yelling in the house, Master Dick,” Alfred reprimanded as he walked through the door. 

“Sorry, Alfie. I didn’t know you were _right there_. Do we have any apricot jam left?” 

“Bread roll?” Cass offered as Alfred magically produced the apricot jam from the refrigerator, handing it to Dick with a pointed look.

“It wasn’t there when I checked,” Dick pouted, clutching the jar to his chest and walking back over to the island counter. 

“Ah, the bread is as delightful as ever, Master Jason,” Alfred complimented. Jason mumbled a shy thank you and bite into another roll. 

“Perhaps Master Timothy would also enjoy some. I don’t believe he has departed from his bedroom all day.”

“I haven’t seen him today either. Or last night,” Dick added chewing on his third bread roll. 

“Nerd’s sleep deprivation probably caught up to him,” Jason rolled his eyes at the thought. 

“Damian, go check on Tim,” Cass said turning to her youngest brother.

“Why would I do that?” Damian scoffed.

“Because you never do anything,” Jason said, shoving a plate with two bread rolls into Damian’s hands. “Go make sure the moron hasn’t suffocated himself in his sleep.”

“Tt. You can go check on Drake yourself. I’m not his keeper,” Damian glared, setting the plate on the counter. 

“Aw, you’re not gonna make _Alfred_ go do it, are ya?” Dick asked, swallowing another bite. 

Damian looked between Alfred, who raised an amused eyebrow, and then back at the plate of bread rolls. 

“ _Fine_ ,” he grumbled, picking up the plate and exiting the kitchen while grumbling about how much of an imbecile Drake was. 

“Let’s give some to Bruce too,” Cass decided, grabbing another plate. 

“Master Bruce is holed up in his study. Perhaps a snack break would do him some good,” Alfred agreed, preparing some tea as well. Cass picked out a serving tray and placed everything on it for Alfred to take to Bruce.

“ _Now_ , you can hang out with me,” Dick grinned, as Jason and he exited the kitchen too. 

“I’ll pass.” 

“I’ll hang out with you,” Cass offered, giggling as Dick beamed. “Sparring?” she offered.

“Race ya!” Dick sprinting down the hall, headed towards the Cave. Cass laughed jogging after him. Jason breathed a sigh of relief, glad he didn’t have to be the one to entertain Dick. He could probably slip out unnoticed now but he also kinda wanted to go to the library. Staying for dinner wouldn’t be too bad, right? 

Jason stretched his arms above his head, making his way towards the library when he nearly collided with something. Well, someone. A small someone. 

“Jesus, kid. Where’s the fire? Aw, was spending 2 minutes with Timmy really that bad?” Jason teased Damian. 

“Drake refused the food,” Damian grumbled, pushing the plate towards Jason. 

“Well, sending _you_ with food probably wasn’t the smartest thing anyway.”

“I haven’t tried to poison Drake in years!” Damian cried out indignantly. 

“Right,” Jason said trying to keep from laughing. “Well, _someone_ better go feed the twerp. Or Alfie’ll be mad,” Jason sighed taking the plate from Damian’s hands and headed upstairs. He was a bit surprised when Damian followed but Jason supposed Damian wanted to yell at Tim for refusing it from Damian the first time. 

“Yo, Replacement!” Jason shouted through the door. “Got food for ya.”

No reply. Jason glanced down at Damian who looked ready to chew Tim out.

“Tim!” He tried again, knocking on the door this time. 

Nothing. Jason really wasn’t in the mood to deal with more difficult family members today. Jason growled kicking at the bottom of the door in a way that would earn him a disapproving look from Alfred if he saw. 

Still no response. Annoyance continuing to grow, Jason reached for the doorknob and threw open the door, stomping inside, Damian right behind him.

“Tim, you’re gonna eat these bread rolls if I have to force-feed them down your throat my— what the fuck?” Jason came to a stop about five feet into Tim’s disaster zone of a room. 

“Do you think he’s dead?” Damian pondered from beside him. And well, it certainly looked that way, Jason thought. Tim was unmoving, slumped sideways on his bed with his face smashed into a pillow, blanket a tangled mess and files and loose papers scattered about. The curtains were drawn shut, the only source of light coming from the now open bedroom door and the bright blue glow from Tim’s laptop. 

Jason was half-tempted to just leave the plate of bread and then bounce but he had a feeling he’d get lectured if like, Tim _really_ was dead. 

“Wakey wakey, Timberly. Come on, it’s half-past two,” Jason nudged Tim’s form, setting the bread rolls down on the side table. A hand slapped him away and then Tim bolted upright all of the sudden, tumbling off the other end of the bend. He sprung upright, eyes wide, breathing heavily. 

“ _Jesus Christ_. What the hell happened to you?” Jason asked taking in the sight of Tim’s pale face and that giant ass bruise on his left eye. 

“Jason?” Tim asked bewildered, before turning away and starting a coughing fit into his elbow.

“You’re sick. Figures,” Damian sighed, taking a step back, further away from Tim’s coughing. 

“M’not sick,” Tim rasped out, fumbling to open his water bottle. Jason and Damian watched unimpressed as Tim gulped down the last of his water, coughing fit finally coming to an end. 

“How is it that you don’t possess a single ounce of self-care?” Jason looked around Tim’s room warily.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Tim glowered from where he stood, becoming even more annoyed when Jason and Damian both made eye contact with _that_ look on their faces. 

“You’re sick and injured and hiding in your room doing case work.”

“It’s a pathetic sight. Even for you, Drake.” 

“Thanks. You guys can go now.”

“Awesome. I’ll go let Alfred know you’re two seconds away from keeling over and dying.” 

“I _said_ I’m _fine_!” Tim glared, frustration growing. 

“So, you’ll have no problem with me sending Alfred to check on you then.” 

Tim closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, calming himself before speaking, “Seriously. I have a ton of work to do,” Tim moved to sit down on his bed again. “It’s just a scratchy throat and some light bruising.”

“ _Light_ bruising?” Jason asked incredulously. The bruising looked _bad_ in this dim lighting, Jason wasn’t sure if he wanted to know what it looked like in some proper lighting. 

“It just looks bad!” Tim insisted. Jason rolled his eyes before fixing a hard glare at Tim. 

“You _look_ like you need to capture the Avatar and regain your honour.” 

“Hilarious,” Tim deadpanned, glaring back at Jason. 

“Capture the what?” Damian asked, looking back and forth between the two. Tim and Jason stopped their glaring, blinking in Damian’s direction. 

“Oh, you depraved child,” Jason shook his head. Damian scowled at the lack of answers. 

“There’s no need to tell Alfred, I’m fine,” Tim said gesturing to himself and the mess of case files in front of him as if that was reassuring in any way at all. “So you guys can just _leave_ now, thanks.” 

“I brought you _food_ , you know?” Jason huffed. Tim blinked and then looked down at the plate of bread rolls, just noticing them now. He took a tentative bite out of one, eyes on Jason as if that would appease him somehow. Jason rolled his eyes once again.

“See, I ate. No need to tell Alfred now.”

“Tell Alfred what?” Tim scrunched his eyes shut and swore in his head. 

“Drake’s sick,” Damian informed Dick who stood at the doorway. “And he’s working instead of resting.” 

“Tim!” Dick admonished, making his way over. 

“ _Damn snitch_ ,” Tim grumbled. 

“What happened to your face?” Dick’s eyes widened as he took Tim’s face into his hands to get a better look. He looked up at Jason, face hard. Jason rolled his eyes for what felt like the millionth time today. 

“ _Yes_ , Dick. I was so mad Tim had the audacity to get sick that I sucker-punched him right in the face.” 

“I wasn’t _accusing_ you, Jason, ” Dick said placatingly, with his preschool teacher voice, returning his attention to a squirming Tim.

“I’m _not_ sick,” Tim continued to protest.

“Tim’s sick?” Cass asked, appearing at the door. 

“No, I’m not!” Tim declared, but at this point it was pretty futile. 

“No one hits rock bottom like you Drake,” Damian smiled, gleeful almost.

“No working. You need rest,” Cass frowned, hands on her hips, eyes slightly narrow. 

“Cass is right! How can you even _think_ about work in this condition?” Dick scolded, scooping up all the files and papers. Tim whined, reached out for them but Cass pushed him back down onto the bed. 

“I’m going to notify Pennyworth,” Damian announced, spinning on his heels and briskly walking out the door, deaf ears falling to Tim’s pleading and protesting.

“So, how’d you get that beauty?” Jason asked, leaning against the wall and Dick continued to fuss about the blanket. 

“I fell onto a fire escape,” Tim sighed dejectedly, no longer struggling in protest had he had accepted his fate. 

“Face first?” Jason laughed.

“Yeah…” Tim said morosely, a perfect exemplar of melancholy and general mopey-ness with his untidy hair, eyes staring off into nothing, and thin frame drowning in the fabric of his hoodie which Jason was pretty certain was _his,_ _that little thief_. 

“Master Timothy! Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Annnnd Alfred was here. Awesome. Tim just brought his knees up to his chest, wiggling his socked toes slightly. They were nice socks, Tim noted. Nice and thick but not itchy or too tight. Where did Alfred get them from? Tim should ask him. And since Alfred was right there, Tim did ask. 

That was apparently not a good time to ask because Alfred shot him an even _more_ disapproving look and Tim just wanted to snuggle up in his bed and get his laptop back so he could keep researching but _noooo_ he had to have nosey siblings who liked to get involved.

So Tim kept his mouth shut (except for when Alfred shoved a thermometer into it) for the rest of the time that Alfred checked him over and lectured him about _‘taking proper care of himself’_ and _‘not overworking himself and hiding is in his room to avoid people finding out he was sick and injured_ ’. Y’know, all the usual stuff.

At least Alfred managed to usher out everyone else because Tim was in no mood for more jokes and lecturing. After being forced to eat a proper meal (some chicken soup and the bread rolls Jason and Cass baked) and given some appropriate medicine, Tim was forced to go to sleep and the door was to remain slightly open in case Tim got any ideas about trying to do some more case work. Tim would have argued some more at that but he was feeling rather sleepy and sluggish after eating and taking his medicine. Getting some sleep wasn’t the _worst_ thing. Besides if he convinced Alfred that he was well enough when he woke up, Tim would be allowed to keep working, right?

Tim held onto that hope as he drifted off to sleep, his dreams full of flying bison and icebergs. 

* * *

  
  


Bruce was there when Tim woke up. The blinds were still drawn shut and a bit of light peeked through the crack of the door, but otherwise it was pretty gloomy and dim in the room. Bruce sat at the edge of the bed, a hand ghosting through Tim’s hair ever so gently. 

“Quite the shiner you got yourself there, kiddo.”

Okay, so the bruise was _bad_. Could everyone stop pointing it out though?

“Whatimeizzit?” Tim mumbled out, yawning a bit as he sat up. 

“Ten to five.”

Tim blinked a bit. It was already dark. Tim hated November. And daylight saving. There was no reason that the sun needed to set at 4:30. 

“How are you feeling?” Bruce asked, handing Tim some water. It was in one of those plastic kiddie cups, probably from when Dick was a child, with faded designs of what appeared to have once been Ninja Turtles. Alfred always made them use these ones when someone was sick, something about limiting the spread of germs even though they were gonna _wash everything anyways Alfred._

“Better now,” Tim replied after taking a few sips. And it was true. The throbbing behind his left eye was practically gone and he felt less cold and sore. Bruce hummed in response, taking the water cup back and gently setting it on the side table. The air was starting to feel chilly; Tim’s nose felt cold so he decided diving back under the warm covers was a good idea. He adjusted his pillows so they were propped a bit more, laying down again but a bit more upright this time. Tim liked to sleep in the centre, so he moved some extra pillow to both sides of his head, a pseudo pillow fort of sorts.

“You need to stop doing this Tim,” Bruce whispered after a few moments, his voice soft, a faint yet mellow sound. 

“Mm?” Tim knitted his eyebrows in confusion, his mind briefly wondered why Bruce would have a problem with his pillow arrangement.

“Not getting enough sleep. Working yourself until you burn out. Hiding when you’re injured or sick. You can’t keep doing that, Tim.” Bruce sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes, as if he was the one that was sick and tired. 

Tim felt hot anger surge up in his chest, filling up his chest cavity, pushing aside the weary exhaustion he had been feeling all day. He wanted to shout and scream all of a sudden. Yell at Bruce about how he _needed_ to keep working, because there was so much to do and no _time_ to sleep, no time for stupid injuries or getting sick and how just thinking about the hundred things he had to do for this one case alone and the hundred more things he had to do at W.E. and how far behind he’d end up being, because he was stupid and got himself injured _and_ sick, made Tim’s chest feel hollow and his hands so shaky and he was _hiding_ all of that because he has no clue how to tell anyone about since just thinking those thoughts makes him sick and anxious and _scared_ , god he was so scared that he won’t be able to keep up and would fall behind and _fail_ and Bruce is a _giant hypocrite_ because where does he think Tim internalized all those things from in the first place?

Tim feels too warm, the air is too hot and toasty and his hands are shaking and eyes hot and stinging but Tim’s pretty sure he can’t blame his cold for all of that right now. 

“You don’t have to do everything alone,” Bruce says.

_I feel alone. Sometimes_ , Tim thinks. He wonders how Bruce would react if he said that aloud. 

“Okay,” Tim whispers instead, voice feeling hoarse and far away. His vision gets slightly blurry, tears welling up, and maybe if he’d lucky Bruce will just think it’s from the cold. 

Bruce runs his hands through Tim’s hair again, cupping his cheek this time too. He frowns a bit, looking at the darkening bruise on Tim’s face. 

“Get some more rest,” Bruce says and Tim closes his eyes, hoping the tears won’t leak through. He feels a lot more exhausted than when he woke up five minutes ago, sleep taking over quickly.

This time, Tim dreams about falling and shattering into a million pieces. 

* * *

  
  


Tim’s alone when he wakes up next time. Shakily sitting up, Tim reached for his phone, squinting at the bright light. It was a little past 8PM. Pocketing his phone, Tim threw off the bedsheets, wincing at the cold air hitting his legs, and exited his bedroom.

It was at the top of the stairs where he almost smashed into Dick. 

“Tim! You’re up. I was bringing you your dinner,” Dick said, raising his tray a bit in emphasis. 

“Oh.”

“Grilled cheese,” Because Tim got tired of soup very quickly and Alfred knew that, “And ginger tea for your throat.” With milk because Tim didn’t like black tea and Dick probably added the milk because Alfred would forget to or never added enough. That’s all there was on the tray, along with some napkins, but it made Tim want to curl up and cry. 

The emotional imbalance was probably from the pain medication, Tim rationalized. Or maybe Tim was finally losing it. Or maybe he was just having a bad day and it was okay to cry sometimes. 

“What kind of cheese is it?” Tim asks lamely, oddly glad that being sick is a good cover for getting all sniffly with watery eyes.

“Cheddar and gouda, ya weirdo,” Dick grins. 

“Good,” Tim sniffs with a small smile, “Can I eat downstairs?” He feels like a kid all of a sudden. Like the time when he was thirteen and staying over at Wayne Manor because he twisted his ankle and his parents were still abroad, and he so nervous and kept asking permission to do every little thing and Dick laughed at him and ruffled his hair and told Tim to relax. 

Dick just turns sideways, making room for Tim to go down the stairs and says, “Of course.” 

He heads for the kitchen but Dick nudges him and leads him to the living room. Tim took a seat on the larger sofa, grabbing the throw blanket that was draped across the armrest and covering his legs with it. Dick handed him the tray and Tim mumbled a thank you, biting into the still-warm grilled cheese as Dick turned on the faux fireplace before sitting cross-legged next to Tim. It only took a few minutes for the room to get nice and toasty.

“Where’s everyone else?” Tim asked, trying to keep his voice nonchalant, as if the quiet atmosphere wasn’t making him want to crawl into a dark cupboard. 

“Finishing up dinner,” Dick said, eyes still watching Tim carefully. Tim took a larger bite out of his sandwich, mentally willing for Dick to stop scrutinizing him. 

It was kind of messed up, Tim could admit, how he was constantly springing back and forth between desperately yearning for someone to give him attention, notice him for just a second, and frightfully praying that no one would pay him any attention at all, lest they ask him some dangerous question like ‘ _Are you okay?’_ and Tim was terrified to even think about the answer to that question. 

“Is Jason still here?” Tim keeps his eyes trained on his food, watch how the tea ripples slightly he shifts. Jason is a good way to steer the attention off of himself, a solid distraction for this family. 

“Yeah, he is,” Dick’s voice sounds surprised in an awed kind of way; he leans back on the couch, stretching his arms behind his head, staring straight ahead now. Tim’s heartbeat relaxes a bit. 

“I think Cass convinced him to stay the night. She wants him to show her how to make pancakes tomorrow morning. I think she’s gonna get Damian to help out too.”

“That sounds like a disaster waiting to happen,” Tim cradles the tea cup in his hands, blowing on it lightly even though it’s probably cool enough by now. 

“Well, anything’s better than Alfred’s sludge waffles,” Dick jokes and Tim can’t help but snort in agreement. “Don’t tell him I said that though.” Dick refocuses on Tim, taking note of the empty plate.

“Done?” He asks, already springing up to stand in front of Tim, hands reaching to grab the tray. Tim wasn’t done with his tea yet and panicked for a moment wondering if he should just gulp down the rest so Dick wouldn’t have to put that away later too. 

_It’s fine_ , Tim thinks in his head, _you’re not being an inconvenience by drinking tea._

His panic settles a bit and he takes another sip, using the time that Dick is gone putting the tray away to pull himself together some more. 

“Feel better?” A head pops up by his left shoulder, and Tim jumps a bit. His tea sloshes around in the ceramic cup but thankfully doesn’t spill over. Cass looks at him with a small smile before climbing over the couch to sit in the spot Dick was a few moments ago. Tim nods and hums in affirmation, bringing a pillow into his lap. 

“Did you like the bread rolls?” She asks, poking his shoulder. 

“They were good. Did you make them?”

“Helped,” Cass nods. She’s watching him now too, too closely. Not in the same way Dick does though. Dick looks at you like he already knows it all, with eyes trying to convey that it’s alright, you can tell him. Cass looks at you like she’s looking right through you, sees something is wrong but she doesn’t know what or why. Dick looks at you patiently, but unwaveringly. Cass will grow tired of not seeing the answer and then demand it.

Tim’s not ready to give any answers right now. 

“Cass! That was my spot,” Dick whines, nudging her with his knee when he comes over. He pushes her a bit and sits in between her and Tim and it’s entirely intentionally and they all know it. 

Damian marches in afterwards, Titus hot on his heels. He plops himself down on the armchair on the left of the couch and Titus sits down on the floor in front of him. Damian eyes Tim with the usual contempt and also something else that Tim’s brain is too tired to try and decipher right now. 

Jason walks in with a bowl of potato chips and lays down on the chaise to Tim’s right. Titus stands up and trots over to Jason, sniffing at the bowl. Damian frowns and Jason looks smug when Titus decides to nap in front of him instead. 

The room suddenly feels smaller and warmer and Tim’s heart is doing that funny leaping thing again and his hands start to feel clammy and shaky. He’s full of silent dread, waiting for his siblings to comment on his bruise or his cold or the drug case he hasn't figured out yet. Or lecture him on hiding and lying and ask him why he can’t even take care of himself. And Tim’s throat already feels thick and he’s about to cry and yell about he’s _trying to take care of himself_ . He’s _trying and trying and trying and can’t they_ see _that?_

Maybe they can see him trying and they see it’s not good enough, that _he’s_ not good enough. He’s just weighing them all down, getting sick because he was out in the rain for too long because he slipped and fell off of a roof because he’s not getting enough sleep because he can’t do enough during the day because there’s just _too much_ to do and Tim’s not good enough to handle it all even though _he should be_. 

Tim feels his grip on the tea cup tighten and he wonders how hard he’d need to grasp it for it to break. He doesn’t get to find out though because another hand gently covered his pale, shaky ones, squeezing it delicately. Tim looks up at Dick who looks at him with _that_ look, except it’s a bit more sad like Dick has finally realized how broken Tim is becoming. Dick takes a breath like he’s about to say something and Tim’s stomach drops.

_Here it comes_ , Tim thinks. 

“...Movie night?” Dick says instead, with that light and charming smile. Dick squeezes Tim’s hand again with a soft and reassuring pressure. _It’s okay if it’s not right now_ , his eyes say, _but it has to be eventually_. 

Tim can live with that, maybe. 

“Okay,” Tim says unsure if his voice actually came out loud enough for everyone to hear. Tim’s not okay. But he feels pretty okay right now. He feels _normal_ , almost, spending his Saturday night like this, watching TV with his siblings, nestled warmly on the couch with a thick blanket and abundant amount of pillows. 

It’s better than being alone, Tim decides. 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> and yes, they watched Avatar: The Last Airbender until they all fell asleep. 
> 
> I was actually gonna end this after the scene with Bruce but it felt too depressing so I wrote more but that also just ended up being depressing too so. My bad. 
> 
> Leave a comment about what kind of bender you are and any thoughts about the story!
> 
> My tumblr is @spider-momo is you want more Batfam (or ATLA) content!


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